


Tired

by darwinsdonut



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst/Fluff, Blood Gulch era, Bonding, Grif's OCD, M/M, Mention of Donut, Mention of Lopez - Freeform, Nonspecified Grimmons, Simmons' Anxiety, red team - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 14:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14263461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darwinsdonut/pseuds/darwinsdonut
Summary: His mind never stops going, and Grif is tired. When he finally blows up, however, Simmons takes it very differently than he expected.





	Tired

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Lots of talk about OCD! Not sure if this is something to warn about? But I'd rather be extra safe. Mention of obsessive checking, intrusive thoughts, and childhood neglect.

Grif was so fucking tired of never getting anything done. 

He was tired of being the lazy one, the slob, the one who never did shit. It wasn’t like this was intentional; it wasn’t like he set out each day trying to find a new way to inconvenience Simmons and Donut or to piss off Sarge. And Sarge constantly being _pissed-_ Grif was tired of that, too. He was tired of being treated like shit. He knew he was shit, but it had been too long that he’d been treated like it. 

And it wasn’t his fucking _fault._

He’d tried to control his thought patterns. He’d tried to learn the coping mechanisms, to shut out intrusive thoughts and impulsive behaviors. He’d tried to calm the undying anxiety that constantly plagued him, telling him to 

check-

is there food? Is there still power? Does he still have a bed? Why is he hungry? Who’s hurt? Is someone hurt? Why wasn’t someone yelling at him? Someone should be yelling at him, they should be telling him to stop napping and get out of the kitchen, where were they? Were they dead? Was Sarge- 

It was too much for anyone to deal with, and definitely too much for Grif. 

And he was so tired of being “the lazy one.” 

The circling thoughts didn’t leave much room for energy, and smart-ass Simmons, intellectual Simmons, didn’t help at all. Simmons, who just knew shit, who had been able to focus in school, who had been able to _finish_ school, who knew how to please others. Maybe he was a kiss-ass and Grif would always give him shit for that, but being a kiss-ass had only ever gotten Grif kicked while he was down, and Grif couldn’t help but hate Simmons a little for his fucking intellect. Grif never even had the opportunity. And Grif hated that his mother’s disappearance had cost him his education, had cost Kaikaina her childhood, and he hated that even now that he’d been ripped away from everything, he still woke up some days, _checking-_ where’s Mom? Is she back yet? Is it going to be another fight? Is she gonna have someone with her? Is she back for good this time? Where’s Kai? Do we have food? 

Yeah, so, he didn’t have much energy. Not with all that shit going on. 

Someone who had more history in science might talk about build-up, and repression, and potential energy and eruptions and all that, or someone who knew more about psychology might be able to explain why Grif blew up the way he did, but Grif knew he sure as hell didn’t have all the answers to that. 

All he knew was that he was tired, and he finally _snapped._

“Maybe if you’d show up for inspection _properly_ for once-” 

“You know what, Simmons?” Grif said, whirling. “Maybe I don’t give a _shit_ about inspection! Maybe I just really don’t care! And maybe you only care so much because you have some fucking authority kink and if Sarge is impressed by how fucking _shiny your armor is_ you’ll be validated or some shit! But that doesn’t work for me, and it never has, and it never will. I don’t have the energy to worry about a speck of mud on my boot, and I never fucking will.” 

“I don’t- it’s not-” 

“No! All you ever do is fucking talk!” Grif continued. “That’s it! All the fucking time! Spouting out your stupid long words and trying to seem like Mr. High-and-Mighty, Mr. Intellectual, Mr. I’m Better Than You Because I Graduated!” 

“You didn’t graduate-?” 

_“No!_ No, I never got the chance! So you can talk about fucking quantum physics all day and I will still never know what the fuck you’re talking about! Babble about calculus or- or trigonometry- or whatever the fuck it is you fucking nerds paid attention to! I don’t give a shit. And I definitely don’t give a shit about impressing Sarge, or anyone else in this god-damn Army.” 

The pulse was there, the twitch, he needed to go _check,_ because this kind of fight- it felt too familiar- and he wasn’t _back there,_ wasn’t back in that shitty apartment where they never had food, wasn’t starving on the floor while Kai tried to persuade him to sleep on the opposite end of their moldy mattress. He wasn’t back there. Wasn’t. He needed to- fuck- he was so tired of _checking._

“You don’t have to.” 

He looked back up, seeing Simmons standing there.“What?” 

“You don’t have to give a shit,” Simmons said. “You just have to put forth a tiny bit of effort.” 

Grif heaved a sigh. He wasn’t getting it. He could never really understand, no one ever had. “You don’t- you don’t understand. You don’t understand all the shit that I go through. None of you fucking do.” 

“Well, you never talk to us about it! We can’t read your mind!” 

“It wouldn’t even make sense if you did! Do you know why I’m always off in the kitchen? Because I’m so used to being fucking starving, that I have to go check that the food’s still there! Do you know why I’m finding reasons to hang out in the base? Because I have to check that I still have a bed, that I still have power! And it doesn’t sound like a lot but there’s _no way to explain it-”_

“Grif, that sounds like OCD.” 

Grif froze. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that; the last time had been seventh grade, when his English teacher asked him why it took so much longer than the rest of the class to finish a test. _I was checking it so I wouldn’t fail._ She’d asked him to explain more. _I know I put the right number of sentences because I have the right number of periods, but what if one of them is supposed to be a question mark? So I had to check for questions. And then I had to check to make sure they weren’t sentence fragments. And I had to check…_

He’d gone on and on, explaining, and she’d had concern in her eyes as she walked him to the school counselor. They’d sat in there during recess and discussed OCD, and Grif had said, _I don’t have OCD; my room’s a mess and my socks never match._ And they’d explained about subtypes, about Contamination and about Mental Contamination and about Checking. They’d explained about Intrusive Thoughts and Anxiety. All it had led to was Grif realizing what he was always doing, at any given moment, was _checking._

“What would you know about it?” He snapped, coming back to the present. 

“My mom had OCD,” Simmons said. “She had the neat-freak kind where she always washed her hands, but I read up on it. The constantly checking thing, that sounds like OCD.” 

Grif stumbled back. “Yeah, what- whatever. Just leave me the fuck alone, alright?” 

And he walked out of the base and up to the cliff. And he shut his brain off for a while, as best he could, and took a nap. 

* * *

It was after dark when Grif came back to base. 

Sarge, immediately, reprimanded him and reminded him what a piece of shit he was. Emotionally exhausted, still tired, Grif couldn’t care. He walked on without pausing, going to the roof, as night patrol had been Sarge’s chosen punishment. Grif walked out to the stars he had just been under and stood for a moment. He couldn’t regret the blow-up earlier; he was… Well, he was too tired. He wanted to do things right, but he’d accepted a long time ago that he was too impulsive, and he was more likely to just fuck everything up. 

Footsteps on the ramp. Maroon armor joined him in the moonlight. 

“Sarge kicked you out, too, huh? What’d you do?” 

“Nah, not kicked out,” Simmons said. “I came out here on my own. I… Kinda wanted to talk to you.” 

Grif turned back to the sky and the canyon in its ghostly light. “Why?” 

“I kind of get it now. Everyone thinks you’re lazy, but it’s because you just… Don’t have the energy to do extra shit on top of fighting your own head.” 

Grif’s shoulder shifted, discomfort twitching through him. “I… I mean, yeah, that’s pretty much it. I just don’t want to say it like _that.”_

“It’s true, though! I used to get like that _all the time!”_

Grif looked over at him. “Really? You?” 

“Fuck yes! After any test I took, I’d be so fucking worn out from anxiety, I just went to bed. My dad hated it, my mom hated it, they both thought I was just making excuses. But it’s- it’s _really_ exhausting to deal with that kind of stress. And for me, it’s just- just performance anxiety, with academics, because I didn’t think I’d ever test high enough. But for you, it’s… All the time.” 

Grif continued to stare at Simmons. “Dude- that’s not just performance anxiety. That’s just actual anxiety. You still try way too fucking hard to be good enough for someone you see in a position of authority.” 

Simmons glanced away, and Grif saw his own tense, uncomfortable posture now affecting the other trooper. Simmons half-laughed. “Well, that at least sounds better than ‘authority kink.’” 

Grif laughed, turning back to the silent canyon. “Man, what the hell are we doing out here? We can’t even _think_ how people are supposed to.” 

“I don’t know if I believe in ‘supposed to,’” Simmons said. “I think it’s fake.” 

“What?” 

“Yeah, I- I think it’s fake. I don’t think anyone’s really ‘functional.’ I think some people are just really good at hiding it.” He paused, and then added, “Sarge is shit at hiding it.” 

Grif laughed harder at that. “What do you think is up with him?” 

Simmons shrugged. “I dunno- authority kink?” 

Grif grinned under his helmet. “Yeah, that definitely sounds right.” 

Simmons chuckled as well, and then said, “Well, anyway… Not to get all personal, stop looking at me like that, I can _feel_ your exasperation already, but… If you had just told me that’s what was going on, I would’ve tried to- I dunno, not call you a lazy piece of shit as much?” 

Grif shrugged. “I kind of _am_ a lazy piece of shit, OCD or not. My base personality is eating Oreos and taking naps.” 

“Look, man, I’m trying to see your side of it, alright?” 

“My side of it is Double-Stufed. With one ‘f.’ Like in Grif.” 

Simmons shook his head. “I tried. Anyway, do you need anything from in the base? Something to eat, for me to- to go check and make sure everything’s good?” 

Grif had a tired smile, concealed by his helmet, and said, “Food’s good; don’t- don’t worry about checking.” 

Simmons nodded and started toward the ramp. As he reached it, Grif spoke one more time: 

“Hey, uh, Simmons?” 

He paused mid-step. “Yeah?” 

“Thanks. Uh… For all of that. It kind of helps to talk about it.” 

“Anytime, Grif.” 

As Simmons disappeared down the ramp once more, Grif felt… 

Well, just a little less tired.


End file.
